


Grace Café

by loghain



Series: Grace Café [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Doomed Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:12:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loghain/pseuds/loghain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What do you see of this Ripper so far? From what you’ve come across?”<br/>“His silhouette. But he’s like dust caught in sunlight."</p><p>Hannibal Lecter is many things: the owner of the Grace Café, a diligent father to an adopted daughter, a formidable former psychiatrist and surgeon. He is talented and tasteful, and Will Graham falls in love with him for all of these reasons. He's also the man Will has been hunting for months, and yet even with his nose to the ground Will's never caught the scent of him - the Chesapeake Ripper.</p><p>A gratuitous café AU, though maybe not so sweet as others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In the first chapter: Sleepwalking leads Will to a chance encounter, which leads him to the Grace Café, where he learns more about his nighttime rescuer - and eventually earns himself a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the first chapter: Sleepwalking leads Will to a chance encounter, which leads him to the Grace Café, where he learns more about his nighttime rescuer - and eventually earns himself a date.
> 
> Revised and expanded, 26/06/15.

_So soft and so tragic as a slaughterhouse_

He became distinctly aware that his feet hurt. And that he was cold. There were hands, unwelcome on his shoulders; warmer than his skin, calling to him, coaxing him out of his mind. His voice felt fragile and sore and shaken, rising up out his throat.

“Where am I?”

“Wolf Trap.” He was well-dressed. His coat was nice, Will noted, the thought coming dull through the haze of his brain as the stranger's face was drawn into focus. He had - high cheekbones, he was older - ten years, maybe more? His hair was going grey in places. “What’s your name?”

“Will Graham.” Answering a question like that was easy.

“My name is Hannibal Lecter. You seem to have wandered far from home.” There was a long pause. Hannibal’s hands left his shoulders. A moment later they were replaced by something heavier, warmer; that nice coat. It smelled strong. A finer cologne than Will’s. The intimacy of the gesture was disquieting, yet Will couldn’t turn away the warmth. His fingers drew inwards and found purchase on the lining. “Will you come with me, Will? I have a first aid kit in my car.”

Will finally brought himself forth enough to look at Hannibal, though not his eyes. “First aid kit?”

“Your feet are bleeding.”

"Huh." Certainly explained why they hurt so much.

He found himself in moments perched on the edge of an open trunk, Hannibal's coat still wrapped around him. His knees were very cold, he thought, and he turned his head towards the inside of the car. He could feel warm air blowing through the vents, and watched Hannibal opening the glovebox, producing a first aid kid.

He lifted his feet into the trunk on Hannibal’s quiet instruction, shuffling back comfortably until they were exposed to the yellow light. They were bloody and dirty, torn by rocks, and there was a thick thorn embedded deep in the arch of his foot. Will grimaced. He hadn't even realised.

“Do you mind?” Hannibal said, and he gestured to Will’s feet.

Will was tired enough that he didn’t really see an option. He wanted the pain to ebb away. He wanted to go home and sleep. He wanted a world free of nightmares.

He shook his head mutely and Hannibal took Will’s foot between his hands, long fingers curving against his heel, two pinching the thorn in his skin. Pulling it out wasn’t the worst part; it was the air that hit it afterwards, sharp and cold, made him wince - the way that blood flowed freely until Hannibal pressed a sterile pad to it.

Will was distinctly reminded of the times that he’d taken thorns from the paws of his dogs, utilising the same kind of delicate care in order to not scare his wounded animals.

“I presume you were sleepwalking,” Hannibal said. Will can feel the pressure of his fingers on the arch. “Is that a habit of yours?”

“I don’t know,” Will admitted. He stared at his foot, held delicately in Hannibal's hands. He could feel his own discomfort, but it was distant. It felt far away, as though he were in the driving seat of a car - _this_ car - and his fear was on foot, trying to catch up. He didn’t know if it was because he was still drowsy and out of sorts or - or what. He felt not quite present in himself. 

He glanced around the trunk. The odds of someone finding him out here were suddenly highlighted as remote.  ”What were you doing out here? What… time is it, anyway?” 

“Just past three in the morning.” Hannibal was moving on, suddenly - he wiped dirt and blood from between Will’s first and second toes, making him jump. “And I suffer from similar sleeping preclusions to yourself. I find empty stretches of land to be comforting.” 

Will nodded numbly. Yes, he could relate to that.

Hannibal leaned into his line of vision and asked, mouth somber, “Where do you live?”

In the next second Will found himself waking up safe and alone, wrapped in a nest of sheets and surrounded by dogs. Their weight was warm and near tempted him to succumb back to sleep, but as he closed his eyes, Hannibal's face - distorted by the night time and smudged memory - came to mind. He couldn't settle.

One of the dogs licked Will's chin. He wrapped an arm around it and huffed, a reluctant chiding. Usually they didn't sleep on the bed - usually he didn't let them - but he felt a distant memory of summoning one of them from their basket, to be a warm weight of safety, and how they had all one by one followed during the night.

A panic sparked low in Will's chest as he scrambled to recall the date. Lately, things - simple things - were getting harder to recall. Cases were taking their toll, he thought. He had nothing to hold onto.

In the end, he reaches for his phone to pull up the day - and it's a Wednesday. He wasn't late for anything. With a groan, he buried his face into the pillow. He had two lectures at Quantico that afternoon, but his phone had also told him that it was barely eight in the morning. That means, he thinks, that he got at least four hours of sleep -

and that was more than most nights. 

"Maybe I should let you sleep on the bed more often," he told his dogs, voice thick with sleepy amusement, and then realised three of them were sleeping on his legs and he couldn't free himself from under them. "...Maybe not."

It took some time to extract himself from the puppy pile - and once he found himself with a large mug of coffee and two aspirin at hand, Will stood by his kitchen window (the early light streamed through, light scattering through thin clouds) and closed his eyes. Hannibal's face still lurked behind his eyelids.

When he opened his eyes, he realised that Hannibal's coat was still in his possession, too - and he crossed back out to the front room curiously. Sure enough, there it was, draped over his desk chair.

Will was starting to get the feeling in his stomach that a social obligation was coming up. Perhaps if there was nothing of worth in the pockets then Will wouldn't have to take the jacket back - perhaps he can hang it up with his own coats like a reminder of the occasional kindness of strangers and nothing more.

So of course it entirely unsurprised Will to find a wallet on his first look into the pockets.

He pulled open the front door and let the dogs run free outside.

According to an elegantly designed little stack of business cards tucked into another coat pocket (in their own silver case), Hannibal was the owner of a coffee house in Baltimore called Grace Café. Will wondered only for a moment what he was doing so far out in Wolf Trap before he took up the hour's drive - with Hannibal's coat neatly folded on the driver's seat beside him.

He'd put the wallet and card holder back in the pocket that he found it, but tucked one of Hannibal's business cards into his own.

Grace Café - whose name was in hand-painted script above the door - was a well lit, comfortable place, with a large bay window that showed off glass displays filled with rows of sweet and savoury snacks and pastries. Behind the glass and the counter, a man cut ingredients and mixed drinks in front of the customers, and a teenage girl worked the cash register beside him.

It took Will a moment to realise that the man was Hannibal. He looked different in daylight. His hair wasn't so plain as he remembered; Hannibal could have been brown-haired or blonde once, but the grey had taken most of it. He was tidy, even fashionable, wearing a fitted white shirt and a white apron around his hips. He moved and spoke with apparent ease.

He was handsome. A handsome older man who owned and ran a café. Will found himself wondering if that made him some kind of eligible bachelor - provided, of course, that Hannibal was a bachelor. And Will, with his creases and purple hollows under his eyes, felt so alarmingly opposite to him. 

He decided to stop watching through the window and quietly patted a little dust off of Hannibal's jacket before pushing open the door. He waited in line politely behind the rest of the customers, glancing about, feet fidgeting on the floor. The fresh, warm smells helped him be still.

Hannibal disappeared from behind the counter without seeing him. Will's anxious fidgeting started up again - the line was cutting shorter and shorter. He hoped Hannibal would come back before he had to talk to anyone else.

His wishes went unfulfilled, as they normally did - but the girl behind the counter was bright-eyed and seemed kind, a yellow-and-blue floral scarf knotted around her throat. She looked him in the eye and Will was given pause; there was a familiarity that he couldn't place, but it was gone when she spoke. "What can I get you?"

"Just a coffee," he said, nudging coins towards her. She didn't seem to notice his lingering look - she just passed him his change and wandered off with a smile to make his drink.

He was glad when Hannibal reappeared just as she was sliding the coffee across the countertop. "Will," he remarked, seeming at once surprised and not at all. He wiped his hands off on his apron and came out from behind the counter as Will picked up his coffee. "I wasn't expecting to see you here." 

"You left some things at my house. Uh. Last night." Will lifted the arm that had Hannibal's coat draped over, and Hannibal's mouth went wide in a smile. It was only when he noticed Hannibal's teenaged colleague watching them that renewed discomfort washed over Will.

Hannibal, apparently having had 'saviour' built into his system, turned to her and said, "Abigail, pay attention to our customers. I'll back with you in a moment."

He gestured down three steps, further into the café. Will was surprised by the size of the place - and the rich decoration, with curtains and tablecloths dipped at the ends in a red that somehow didn't call blood to mind. Will was by no means an expert, but it was a beautiful place. 

The room was crowded. If Will were fond of places with people in, he might have called it pleasantly crowded, since it wasn't overly oppressive - there were just enough people for Will to tell that Hannibal's business was flourishing. Hannibal lead the way and Will followed, into a corner of plush chairs and a low coffee table that he gratefully placed his drink down on. 

"I take it you found my wallet," Hannibal said.

"And your business cards. It's in your coat," Will answered. 

Hannibal chuckled. It was a short noise. "I gathered that you were not the sort to steal, Will, don't worry." 

Will thought about that. "Did you leave your coat with me on purpose?"

"Yes," Hannibal replied, and he took a seat in one of the chairs. Will sat opposite him, gently folding the coat and putting it over the arm of another empty chair as he did. "Though perhaps not for the reason that you're thinking. You had been outside a long time. You were tired, and I didn't want to intrude on your home, nor make you remove the coat when it was the only thing keeping you warm." Hannibal linked his fingers tidily in his lap. "I honestly forgot that my wallet was in there until I was far from yours."

"I was pretty surprised when I read your card and it said you were out here in Baltimore." Will had seen the row of windows the floor above the café; he made an assumption that Hannibal lived above his business. "What were you doing out in Wolf Trap?"

"I told you. I find my sleep troubled."

"It's an hour and across state lines. Seems pretty far to go just to take your mind off sleeping problems." Will paused, realising how he sounded. This wasn't an FBI investigation. He reeled himself back in and muttered, "Sorry" and brought his coffee cup to his mouth.

Hannibal tilted his head. He didn't seem offended. "I drive until I no longer feel the urge to drive. And then I stop driving. It's preferable to unconsciously wandering in the cold. I would suggest you try it but I fear you might be the sort to fall asleep at the wheel, the monotony of the open road being numbing rather than comforting."

Will sat back, eyebrows pulling together. "Are you a therapist or a café owner?"

"Can I be both?"

"I think you need different licenses."

That made Hannibal chuckle again. Will found himself smiling in kind - and this time, he paid attention to the coffee as he drank down a mouthful. It was rich and smooth and strong and Will found himself in need of sugar, but it wasn't bitter enough to be off putting.

Will's eyes roamed and saw Abigail at the top of the café over his cup. "Is she your daughter?"

He didn't know what really compelled him to ask. There was a sense there, and perhaps it just seemed wasteful not to, now that they were here and sitting. Will's ear strained for Hannibal's accent, eager to hear more.

"Not quite. I adopted Abigail last year. The law calls me her guardian, but she doesn't view me as her father." That was a sadder story than Will had anticipated, although there was no sorrow in Hannibal's eyes, and he amended, "I simply can't take the place of what she lost."

Will glanced sidelong at Hannibal. "Do you tell every customer about that?"

"Only the ones that ask," Hannibal shrugged, "and at this point I figure I owe you openness in exchange for having spent the majority of the small hours escorting you through Wolf Trap's back woods whilst you were in your underwear."

Will wasn't sure what to say to that. Hannibal supplied conversation. "Did you sleep well after I took you home? No more night time wanderlust?"

Will nodded. Hannibal smiled graciously. "As it happens, I did as well. It seems we helped each other."

"You can't have slept for long," Will murmured. "Between seeing me home and the drive back."

"I have long found myself used to long hours with little rest. Perhaps a contributor to my recent problems." Hannibal's gaze was pulled from Will, and he looked to Abigail behind the counter, who was writing down orders and sticking them up against the back wall. Food orders, Will figured. "I'm afraid that my protégé needs me." He looked back to Will, and Will caught his eyes without meaning to. It felt like a silent command compelled him to keep the gaze, and Hannibal earnestly told him, "It was good to meet you outside of the darkness, Will Graham."

Will could only nod numbly.

"Do you want something to eat?" 

It took a moment for the words to reach his ears. Will jerked robotically and then shook his head, lifting his coffee and saying, "I'll just - go after I've had this." 

Hannibal nodded slowly, rising from his seat and brushing out creases in his apron. He picked up his coat. "Thank you for returning my coat. And wallet. I would have been most inconvenienced without it." He left a long pause and lingered, long enough that Will was prompted to look up at him, at which point Hannibal said, "I hope you come back soon."

Will nodded. The coffee was good. Abigail said bye to him as he left, which seemed unusual. Hannibal was intriguing but his many words were like spiders, creeping into the recesses of Will's mind and making sense. It made Will have no intention of going back - to see him or for anything else.

That was the worst thing: that they made sense. Will drove to Quantico for his afternoon lectures and stared at the road, and he imagined it was dark and he was seeking night time relief. He imagined his eyes slipping shut with each white or yellow line that passed under his wheels.

And Will had a vivid imagination.

He didn't go back to Grace Café for a month, not until he woke up in a field with mud in his mouth. The grass was cold against his cheek and he was damp and he started shivering as soon as his body registered that it was outside, and all Will could imagine was coffee, warm and too strong, and Hannibal's piercing attitude to re-arrange the thoughts in his mind until he was at some point of ease.

"May I ask your line of work?"

Will stared at the pitch black coffee as it was poured between two glass cups. "I work at Quantico." A beat. "At the FBI academy. I teach - forensic science, criminal profiling..." 

"Quantico," Hannibal echoed. "Are you forced to confront gruesome pictures that you present to your students? Ones that perhaps follow you home."

A shake of the head. "Pictures don't bother me." That was the truth. Pictures were removed from reality. It was harder to step into the shoes of a culprit on ink-and-paper, and it was even harder to step into a digital footprint. Will hesitated, though, and admitted, "I occasionally go out in the field."

Hannibal offered a cup out to Will. "It must be grim. Do the things you see there follow you?"

Will took the cup and inhaled coffee. Behind his eyes rose fungi and rotted skin, a man without lips gasping for air and grasping for life. A girl gored and cut open, her organs placed back inside her, apologetically tucked into bed for her parents to find. "I don't know if they follow me so much as they are always with me."

"So they are consistently present. Do you see your work now?"

Will opened his eyes and drifted away, to the seats that feel familiar, plush and deep. Hannibal followed. "Not my work," Will said. "A farmer's work."

When he was comfortable, and coffee was warming his belly, he asked, "Where did the name 'Grace Café' come from?" Will's eyes lolled about the café and watched Abigail serving little platters of delicately piled food to a pair of women sat opposite each other. "I would've thought that... it would've been a name, or..." He trailed off. 

"It is a part of my name," Hannibal answered, "which means 'grace of Ba'al'." Hannibal offered Will the slightest of sardonic smiles. "Hannibal's Café did not quite have the same ring to my ear."

Will snorted and drank his coffee. "Can't have them thinking they'll be fed by a Carthaginian general."

"Will you let me feed you today, Will?" Out of the corner of his eye, Will watched Hannibal shift, smoothing a fold in his apron. Hannibal's apron always seemed to be unusually clean. "Something light but filling, I think. Good rustic bread, toasted, with a spiced liver pâté. On the house."

Now that he thought about it, he was hungry. Will couldn't remember the last time he ate. Yesterday, surely, but what time - that was all a blur. Events slid together pierced only by death and reenactments of atrocities... and by Hannibal, to whom Will said, "That sounds good."

Hannibal smiled and Will smiled back.

Hannibal, of course, had a shop to run. He served Will one meticulously stacked plate of bread, with a side salad and a round dish filled with pâté, and Will had just enough time to ask what kind of liver it was before the man was back to work.

"Duck," Hannibal said, refilling Will's coffee cup before walking away.

Will ate his fill faster than he expected and picked at leftover salad leaves between sips of coffee. He found himself watching Hannibal with unexpected interest - Hannibal's presence drew natural attention, the well dressed handsome man making coffee that smelt like heaven and food that was all home-made.

The way he bustled around Abigail was... sweet, a father without being a father. He heard Abigail call him Hannibal and watched how in quiet conversation he doted on her, ending their exchange with a press of his lips to her forehead.

Abigail wrinkled her nose and laughed. She still wore a scarf. Today it was brown and green, summer leaves outlined in gold.

Will ordered more coffee and called in absent to his lectures for the day. He felt calmer in his corner of the café than he had in some time, even without Hannibal beside him giving voice to Will's feelings. He drank, and relaxed, and with each blink, horror lurked less behind his eyelids. There was an ease to being here.

As minutes crept by, Will caught himself wondering what Hannibal was like outside the Grace Café, if his personal meals were as laboured and artistic as the things he made for his customers. He wondered if Abigail was a good daughter, if they fought, if Hannibal was strict or kind. He imagined that Hannibal might be both. That he would give as much as he could give and hold back when he had to.

He wondered with his over-active imagination and found himself slipping into scenarios that weren't meant to cross his mind. Scenarios that weren't his, that didn't belong to him. Long nights where he slept well, where he was caught sleep walking before he could even reach the bedroom door, where he never woke up with dirt in his mouth and thorns in his feet. The bed sheets were heavy and smooth and not his.

Will imagined attending dinner with Hannibal and Abigail. In his mind, Hannibal reached across the table and touched Will's wrist, and later in evenings he was there to wipe away the terrors of empathy. 

Will left the café when Hannibal wasn't looking.

He came to the Grace Café of his own volition on the next Saturday, an afternoon visit born of free will rather than sleepwalking and compulsions. It was packed, wall to wall, and Will felt ridiculous in his disappointment when he saw that his favoured seat in the corner was taken.

He asked Abigail for a coffee to go, and shifted unhappily on his feet, looking around the café in search of Hannibal even as he handed over the money in correct change.

"He's not here, by the way."

Will turned sharply back to her, frowning. "Hm?"

"Hannibal," Abigail supplied, pouring fresh coffee into a thick paper cup. "He had to go out." 

Will's frown got deeper. For several reasons. "Are you here alone?"

Abigail gave him a distasteful look. Will stared at the paisley scarf she was wearing. "I can handle it. The food's just better when it's him." She pressed a lid onto Will's coffee cup and slipped it into a cardboard sleeve. "You can wait for him to get back but he might be a couple of hours."

Abigail put the coffee down in front of him, but held onto it. "Or," she said, bright eyed and playing innocent, "I could give you his number so that you stop hanging around for an excuse to talk to him." 

"I'm not," Will started, and then stopped as Abigail produced a marker from thin air and wrote a cellphone number on the side of his cup.

Abigail smiled broadly and went on to serve the next customer.

Will waited until he was back at home in the evening to call Hannibal.

He'd honestly thought about not calling at all, about forgetting foolish endeavours of - of whatever it was that he wanted from Hannibal.

It just seemed like such a waste not to.

Will had fully prepared himself for no small amount of societal awkwardness when he called, for explaining himself and the fact that Abigail had offered up Hannibal's number, which meant that he was completely knocked back when Hannibal answered the phone with, "Good evening, Will."

"What?" Will pulled the phone from his ear and looked at it incredulously, as though he could somehow see Hannibal down the line, and then pressed it back again. "How did you know - ?"

"Abigail took the liberty of informing me that she gave you my number. I'm sorry that I wasn't there to see you this afternoon. Did you find yourself wandering the night again?"

Will sank back in his chair, staring at his long empty coffee cup where it rested on the desk in front of him. "No," he said, and reached out to turn it so that he could see Hannibal's number in Abigail's scribbled handwriting. "I just..."

He was going to say that he just wanted to see Hannibal.

"I just felt like stopping by," he amended.

"Stopping by an hour from your own home?" Hannibal sounded amused.

It took a moment to realise that Hannibal was teasing him, harking back to Will's momentary game of twenty questions when they first met. "As it happens," he murmured, and smiled.

There was a long silence that passed, but it was not uncomfortable. Will could hear a noise that sounded like the knocking of pans. "Are you cooking?" He asked.

"A sausage and mussel paella," Hannibal answered, "I've rather made too much for just myself and Abigail. There will be plenty leftover." There was another long pause, this time because Will wasn't sure what to say. "With that in mind, would you be opposed to coming into the city tomorrow for lunch?"

A dog curled up under Will's feet. Hannibal added, "Some Sundays I don't open shop. Tomorrow is one of those Sundays. It would give an opportunity for a conversation uninterrupted by my duties in the café."

"That'd be nice," Will admitted. Nicer than he dared to admit. Watching Hannibal was one thing, speaking to him was another entirely, and Will couldn't deny that he'd thought about what it would be like to see Hannibal in a more personal setting. "What time?"

"How does one o'clock sound?"

"It sounds good. Great." 

"Then I will see you at one. If you'll excuse me, I need both hands for serving dinner." 

"Uh - of course."

"Goodnight, Will." 

Hannibal's flat above the café was as beautifully decorated as the café itself. It was bigger than it looked from outside, too. Will got the briefest of tours on the way through to Hannibal’s combined kitchen-dining room - a glimpse of a lounge room, a place that looked like it was more frequently inhabited by Abigail than by Hannibal, and of a large, immersive study that looked like Abigail had never been in there at all.

The table in the kitchen-diner was laid out for just two people. That gave Will pause and he quietly pushed his hands into his jacket pockets, seeking something to grasp onto and settling for curling his fists up. “No Abigail?”

“Abigail has taken advantage of her day off and gone out with friends her own age,” Hannibal said, and he went behind the countertop and turned on the stove where a pot with a lid on was already sat. “Today’s adventure is yours and mine. What do you prefer to drink?”

Will looked down at his shoes and then back up, watching Hannibal as he took glasses down from a cupboard. “What do you have?” Will had expected Abigail would be here, for some reason. The idea that he was alone with Hannibal wasn’t exactly disquieting - but it made Will nervous, more thanks to the thoughts that ran around his own mind than anything else.

“A selection of wine, fruit juices, and a couple of bottles of beer.” Hannibal lifted the lid from the pot and took a wooden spoon from row of kitchen utensils, falling silent to stir the food. “Myself, I will be drinking a rosé wine to match our meal.”

Will found himself entirely unsurprised that Hannibal would have a range of things to offer. “I’ll just have what you’re having, then.”

Hannibal smiled. “An excellent choice.” 

Will snorted and stepped closer to the counter, resting his fingers on the marble surface and watching as Hannibal poured out the wine and then went back to reheating the paella. Looking at how much was in the pan, Will couldn’t help but ask, “Did you deliberately make too much so that I would come over for lunch?”

“No,” Hannibal said, and Will felt foolish until he added, “I was going to ask you to come over regardless of whether I simply had to warm up leftovers or create a three course meal from scratch.” 

Will felt a very different kind of foolish then. He lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck and reached for his wine glass, distracting himself with a mouthful of crisp, cold alcohol. 

Lunch was served in curved, shallow dishes, and it was as good at Will expected. He was quickly coming to realise that there wasn’t a thing Hannibal did that he didn’t do well - his business flourished, his food was delicious, his choice of wine was probably exquisite but Will wasn’t familiar enough with that sort of thing to know.

The comfortable silence of eating was broken first by Hannibal.

“Before this lunch progresses much further,” he said, “I have a question for you, Will.”

Will swallowed his mouthful of paella and gently rested his fork down. “What is it?”

Hannibal sipped his wine and then asked, “Is this a lunch between friends or would you prefer for things to be of a different nature?”

Will stared at him, forgetting his aversion to eye contact in favour of his sheer disbelief. “Are you asking if I think this is a date?” He found himself gesturing with his hands and made himself stop. “Is this a date?”

“I’m asking if you’d like it to be,” Hannibal answered, smooth and impassive, and Will realised that there was no wrong answer. Hannibal was giving him a genuine choice, and Will felt suddenly vindicated, guilt and nerves over his recent thoughts and active imagination dropping out of him - of course only to be replaced by a different ball of nerves, coiling and twisting in his belly.

“I think I would,” he managed.

Hannibal smiled once more and picked back up his own fork. “I should have made our meal from scratch.”

As always, Will found himself smiling back. It hurt his face to smile so much when he was so used to pain and grimaces. He wondered if he would ever get used to it - or if he’d even be given the chance to.

Quashing his thoughts, Will resumed eating, and after another mouthful he had to ask, “Where did you learn to cook?” 

“I taught myself. Cooking was always a hobby of mine. I never took it seriously as work until I opened the café two years ago.” Hannibal shifted in his seat, looking across the table at Will between eating.

Hannibal grew only more curious the more that Will learned about him. He leaned back in his seat, brow furrowed. “What did you do before that? If cooking was only ever a hobby - ?”

“I was an emergency room surgeon and then I became a full-time psychiatrist.”

All at once, Hannibal made both more and less sense. "That explains why you're so good at getting inside my head." Will stared into his paella as he ate it. "You gave up a presumably long medical career, preceded by years of medical training, to become a café owner?"

"Some bad memories are potent enough to pervert an entire lifetime," Hannibal acknowledged, and Will's mouth twisted a little. Hannibal blinked at him. "You should know that."

Will couldn't argue with that. He nodded. His mind searched for appropriate conversations, for things less heavy and painful, but Hannibal took control of the flow as he often did. "Do you struggle with letting people inside your head, Will?"

"Yes." Will stopped, fork midway between plate and mouth, and added, "Although more often I struggle with getting them out of there."

"Your work in the field for the FBI. I take it they bring you out to profile killers." 

"Yes. I - I can... step into their shoes." 

"Killers leave big shoes to fill." Hannibal seemed thoughtful for a moment, and then he said, "You can empathise with killers, can you not? Perhaps too well."

Will wrinkled his nose and clarified, "I can empathise with anyone."

"You aren't paid to empathise with anyone. They pay you to empathise with the ghosts of killers at crime scenes. Ghosts that haunt you, which makes me wonder, is it the crimes or the criminals that you - as you said stay - present with you...?" 

Will eyed Hannibal. "I don't think you're supposed to psychoanalyse on the first date."

"I would apologise, but I've already seen you in your underwear. We aren't doing things in the conventional order."

Will had to admit that he had a point. "Don't apologise," he said. After a heavy pause he confessed that, "It helps. The way you talk things through. The way you... are inside my mind. You make things make sense." He huffed out an only slightly bitter laugh. "I should be paying you for such good therapy." 

Hannibal stood up then, and Will was surprised that between talking, they'd both managed to polish off their platefuls of food. Hannibal took both their plates and Will pushed his chair back to join him in the small kitchen space, where he said, "It's both. The murders and the murderers. I see what they did behind my eyes and behind that I feel how and why they did it."

Hannibal looked at him. "You have an extraordinary mind, Will. I only hope that your work doesn't cause you to harm it." He stepped up to the sink, putting plates, cutlery, pans and assorted unwashed utensils in before turning the water on and rolling up his sleeves. "Would you care to help me clean up?"

"Of course." Will stepped up beside him.

"Would you like to wash or dry?"

"Wash," Will chose. "There's less chance of me dropping and breaking things then." Hannibal chuckled and shut off the tap, stepping aside and sweeping his arm out for Will to take his place.

The water was just hot enough to make Will’s fingers tingle. He took the cloth and sponge and wiped dishes and cutlery clean, and as he placed them on the drying rack, Hannibal would take them and wipe them over with a dry cloth and stack them back in his cupboards or in his drawers.

It became something of an absent minded task, Will distracted by watching bone and muscle move beneath the skin of Hannibal’s hands, and that of course lead right to Will thoughtlessly slicing his palm against a sharp vegetable knife at the bottom of the sink. He hissed and drew his hands out of the water as soap and heat began to sting, and before he could turn Hannibal was there, taking his injured hand and drying it with a soft cloth.

“I wasn’t paying enough attention.” Will fidgeted, wincing and embarrassed at both his injury and the fact that yet again Hannibal was tending to him like an injured animal. He’d never meant to let Hannibal look after his feet when he had his trip through the woods, in all honesty, but he’d been so addled that it hadn’t crossed his mind to make him stop. 

This time, though, he could withdraw his hand from between Hannibal’s and apologise and look after himself. He could.

Despite his embarrassment, he didn’t. He just watched as Hannibal pulled the cloth away spotted with blood and water. Hannibal said, “It was my fault. There should never be sharp knives in water where you can’t see them.”

Will wanted to insist that it was his own fault for being too distracted - because it was - but something in Hannibal’s expression made him stop. Hannibal leaned away, opening a drawer and pulling out a small first aid kit, keeping Will’s hand held gently in his own the whole time, even as he flipped it open to produce an antiseptic wipe and a long blue bandaid.

Hannibal let go for long enough to open both the wipe and the bandaid. He applied them one after the other, drawing the wipe across the cut with enough pressure to make sure that it was clean, and when it was dry he deftly put the bandage over it.

Will felt a little like a child, up until Hannibal turned his hand over, grasping it still, and kissed his knuckles. Will inhaled sharply, and as soon as Hannibal lowered his hand, he stepped forward to close the gap and kissed Hannibal before he could decide not to.

It was a good kiss. It had the potential to be a great kiss. Hannibal’s hand came up to cup his neck and Will dared to thread his own hand in Hannibal’s short hair; his other hand remained grasped by Hannibal’s, and in the kiss he forgot everything about embarrassment or nerves or pain and surrendered to the way that Hannibal’s mouth felt against his.

The only thing that stopped it being a great kiss was the way that Will’s phone began to ring from his back pocket, and the only person who cared enough to call Will on a Sunday was Jack Crawford. Will was tempted to ignore the call. He very nearly did when Hannibal’s tongue teased, just the littlest bit, but then Hannibal was the first to pull away and say, “I think you should answer that.” 

Will managed to at least stop himself from chasing Hannibal’s mouth. “I’d really rather not,” he said, and then sighed, stepping away from Hannibal and answering his phone.

Sure enough, Jack’s voice echoed down the line without so much as a hello. “Will, we need you to come in. This could be another Ripper kill.”

Will’s blood chilled. He glanced at Hannibal, and stepped further away reluctantly as he asked, “Where do I need to be?”

“A church in Downtown Baltimore.” Will grimaced. At least it was convenient. “Katz should be texting you the address right around now.”

His phone bleeped against his ear. That would be it. “I’ll be there soon.”

“See you in an hour.” 

“Sooner than that,” Will corrected, looking over his shoulder to where Hannibal was stood by the sink with an inscrutable expression and folded arms. “I’m already in Baltimore.”

“Gotcha.” Jack hung up.

“Duty calls?” Hannibal inquired.

Will nodded, and then he walked back to Hannibal to kiss him again, sharper and harder than before, and when he pulled his mouth away he didn’t move away, instead nudging his nose against Hannibal’s and murmuring, “You know - if - next time you find yourself driving at night - you could drive to my door.”

“I will have to do that.” Hannibal sealed the matter with another kiss, and then Will left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Will visits a gruesome revenge tableau, Hannibal spends the night and they begin to learn their way around a relationship - and later, the Ripper strikes again, and then accompanied by nightmares, some of Will's older pains resurface.

_I fell in love with the feeling of being in love_

The tableau laid before Will in a small church somewhere in the heart of Downtown Baltimore was not the work of the Chesapeake Ripper. Will could feel that much from his first glance. There were similarities, in the artistry of the murder, the removal of organs - but this felt false, counterfeit. Not the Ripper, and not a copycat, and not intended to be a copycat, just... similar.

First things first, this victim was a woman. The Ripper did not exclusively kill men (as Miriam Lass was unfortunate proof of), but his victims were more male than female. Will trod carefully around the pool of blood, looking anywhere but the body until the moment that Jack Crawford’s voice echoed through the church, telling everybody to get out of Will’s way.

He appreciated the isolation, at least. It was harder to do this with people watching.

The woman had been beautiful in life. In death, her face was twisted with pain, her eyes shocked open. Knives were driven through her hands, perhaps in a sloppy and failed attempt at pinning her to the ground. Will nudged the stone tiles with the toe of his boot.

She was split open from sternum to belly, her body made a mess of. She still had clothes on - demure, plain clothes, too. Will shuffled as close as he dared and closed his eyes.

The world fell into reverse with his thoughts, and in his mind he stood in the church, between the rows of pews as people filed out after their Sunday service. He didn’t leave, and neither did his victim.

I came here to kill her once all those believers were gone, he thought. I came prepared, with knives in my pockets whilst a priest spoke about the importance of people loving each other in these trying times.

She wronged me, Will realised. She made a grave mistake. I made sure that she paid for it, with stigmata, and... He opened his eyes and turned, calling out to Beverly where he knew she was lurking at the back of the church. “What organs were taken?”

“Just her womb,” Beverly called back.

Will nodded. “She had an abortion. He... hated her for that. He’ll be a regular churchgoer, he’ll... he was her partner once, or maybe even was up until he killed her. He was shaming her, laying her out like this for God to see. It’s not the Ripper.”

Beverly didn’t bother to ask how he knew.

Will shuddered and turned his back on the body, striding back through the pews and wiping a hand over his face as he did. Beverly spoke up. "How'd you do that?"

Will came to a halt and realised she was referring to the blue bandage across the length of his palm. He cleared his throat and said, "Cut myself whilst cleaning up lunch."

"Jack said you were already in the city."

Will pointed out, "I was having lunch."

It was evening before Will finally made it back home. He found himself bone tired and annoyed, throwing his coat down on the chairs before letting his dogs outside and watching them sniff about and streak across the grass in the dark. He hadn’t started today with plans of seeing a dead body, had no intentions of coming home with the shadow of yet another killer clinging to him like smoke.

At least he had the ghost of a kiss to get by with. Three kisses, actually. Will leaned against his doorframe, crossing one foot over the other and whistling sharply when one of the dogs ran off too far. He thought about calling Hannibal - and then decided against it. It was late. He could call him tomorrow.

He closed his eyes to the Virginia skyline and dared to hope, imagined a scenario where any minute now Hannibal would pull up in his car and relieve Will of the testing day that he’s had.

Will opened them and, after a moment, called his dogs to go inside.

Will woke up stood on his roof and at the first shock of cold morning air and the sight of ground below him, he tried not to panic. This was the worst of his sleepwalking. He was used, more or less, to leaving his home in the middle of the night, to wandering across the flat fields and into the woods. It was dangerous, wandering without reason or consciousness... but waking up on the brink of falling was always worse.

Will felt like he was waiting for the day that he woke up with broken limbs. Or the day that he didn’t wake up at all.

It was Monday, though. It was a Monday and he couldn’t just take off to Baltimore for the comfort he wanted, for coffee and breakfast and conversation at the Grace Café. He had lectures all day, and no doubt Jack would be asking for Will on top of that.

The day passed excruciatingly, as though he were being punished for the few good days he’d had recently. His students were especially noisy, their questions particularly grating, and by the time that Jack dropped by his classroom in the late afternoon to ask if Will would continue to help investigating with the Baltimore church murder, he felt exhausted. Hell, he was exhausted. Sleepwalking was never quite sleep. It always left him dull and restless.

It was hours of pixels of blood and mocking stigmata and files of the people who knew the victim, of witness interviews that were earnest but false, of ones that were true but lacked enough detail to be useful before Will shoved one family photograph towards Jack and tapped one of the faces. “Him.”

“Her brother?” All the same, Jack took down his name and began making the necessary calls.

“Yes.” Will shoved the chair back, picking up a cup half full of long cold coffee and draining it. It tasted terrible, but that wasn’t the point. “Now, unless you need anything else...”

“I have it from here.”

Will wondered if Jack would ever actually thank him, and quickly left before he could think of another reason to keep him behind.

On the drive home Will tried not to think about the monotony of the road.

He called Hannibal almost the moment that he got indoors, dropping his body down into the nearest seat that wasn’t occupied by a dog. The evening was getting later and if he’d waited much longer it would’ve been too late for him to call. He wanted to thank the good (former) doctor for their date, apologise for cutting things short, and above all he just wanted to talk. He wasn’t often compelled to hear another person’s voice for long, but Hannibal had a growing habit of breaking down... well, Will’s habits.

The phone rang, and rang, and then went to voicemail. Will frowned and hung up before Hannibal’s polite, accented answerphone message could get past “This is the voicemail of Hannibal Lecter” and dropped his phone onto a side table.

He sighed, sinking down into the chair. One of the smaller dogs clambered up into his lap without so much as a pause, and Will didn’t have the heart to scold her. He threaded his fingers into short white fur, counting the dogs as he looked around the room, watching the largest of them roll over in it’s basket. He shifted his legs for another to curl up under his chair.

Will was glad of the company of his family of strays, now more than ever, now that he was afflicted with actually wanting company. He closed his eyes.

The knocking on his front door seemed unlikely to be who he wanted. Much too good to be true, like a scene out of a novel. Will opened his eyes and wondered if it wasn’t Jack, come to drag him out to reach his hands into dusty shadows. He glanced down, noting that all his dogs had changed positions, and one was quietly sat at the front door, peering up at it with a curiosity that Will shared.

When the knocking came again, she let out a little bark. Will hissed her quiet and pushed himself up from the chair, wincing as his back cracked. He must have fallen asleep.

He pulled open the door and Hannibal said, “I’m sorry that I missed your call.”

Will blinked until Hannibal was clear in sharp focus. “You were on your way here?” His tongue felt thick in his mouth.

Hannibal nodded. He tipped his head a little. “May I come in?”

Will was glad to step aside to let Hannibal in. He was prepared to to shoo his dogs away, but to his surprise when they all roused and began to sniff around, Hannibal simply leaned down and scratched all of them behind their ears, ruffling their fur pleasantly. Will was content to quietly watch for a moment, and then Hannibal straightened up, turning and saying, “As lovely as your dogs are, would you like to step out on the porch for a while?”

Will looked the dogs swarming around Hannibal and nodded. He stepped out first, murmuring “Stay” to his pets and swiftly shutting them inside once Hannibal had joined him.

“How did things go after you were called away?” Hannibal tucked his hands into his trouser pockets, coming to a standstill beside the banister.

Will shrugged, folding his arms against his chest and wandering close to Hannibal, peering out over the horizon. It was all dark, with only the faint glow from the house behind them and the occasional spots of car lights travelling past. “This morning I woke up on my roof.”

Hannibal glanced at him. “Not well, then.”

“I thought it went fine, all... violent, bloody murders aside. It was easy. I filled a man’s shadow but I thought that for once I left it behind - more or less, anyway.” Will unfolded his arms and rested his hands on the banister, and then fidgeted until he was leaning forward on his elbows, his hands clasped together. “I’m sorry that I had to leave.”

Hannibal joined Will in leaning against the banister. “Don’t apologise, Will. Although I find myself wondering if the FBI is short on profilers.”

Will snorted softly. “Not at all, but Jack Crawford...” Will breathed out. “The head of the Behaviour Science Unit. He could ask anyone, but he asks me, because he thinks I’m the best, because he thinks that... I think differently.”

“This Jack Crawford may be right on those points. You can assume points of view that other profilers can’t, in ways that they can’t. It makes you special,” Hannibal paused. “But it also leaves you vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable,” Will muttered. “No, if Jack saw me as vulnerable he wouldn’t drag me to every horror in every dark room. He wouldn’t... make me look.”

“Nobody can make you look, Will. You want to solve these murders or you would tell Jack Crawford ‘no’.”

Will twisted his mouth. “So I put myself in these situations?”

“Yes. Although I don’t know if you anticipate the damage they cause you.” Hannibal rolled his shoulders. “Or do you think the damage is worth it? To catch killers?”

Will didn’t know the answer to that. Voice strained, he told Hannibal, “I just want to feel safe when I sleep.”

Hannibal looked quietly at Will for a long moment, and then leaned across to kiss him. It was brief and chaste, the type of kiss forced by the angle, so Will sought to change that, straightening up as Hannibal did and coming in close. The next kiss was more bitter than before, driven by exhaustion and anxiety on Will’s side, but he drank in what Hannibal gave him and in time the move of Hannibal’s mouth over his calmed his nervous blood.

Hannibal’s hand was warm and firm at the nape of his neck, drawing him in, and Will’s fingers found Hannibal’s collar, wrapping at the edges and grasping tightly. In a moment’s breath he looked down and unbuttoned Hannibal’s jacket, and then had a hand warm and close against Hannibal’s waist, feeling the curve of his side through his vest and shirt.

Will couldn’t help but laugh, when he had a moment for air. His breath came out in white clouds, and he leaned into Hannibal as he said, “Do you alway wear a three-piece suit when you’re not in the café?” He touched Hannibal’s rich paisley tie, silk in blue and purple and green.

“Not always,” Hannibal said, and Will just had to kiss him again when he added, “Tonight I wanted to provide you with a challenge.”

Will closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, the smell of rich cologne and coffee and food all over Hannibal, and the Virginia night air piercing his senses somewhere behind that. “I think,” he breathed, trying to unbutton Hannibal’s vest and taste his mouth and speak all at once, “we should go indoors. Upstairs.”

His skin felt hot and prickly in a not unpleasant way when he was free from Hannibal’s grip, and with Hannibal’s eyes on him he couldn’t feel the cold at all and barely noticed the temperature change when they got inside. Up the stairs they went, Will nervously taking them two at a time, with Hannibal following closely behind, and then they were in his bedroom.

Will didn’t remember the last time he’d had someone in his bedroom. Hannibal didn’t give him the chance to think about it, kissing him again immediately, with a raw possessiveness that tempted Will’s knees to tremble. He got his hands on Hannibal’s suit jacket to push it from his shoulders, and then the vest as he got it undone, catching them both and turning to put them over the chair in the corner of his room.

When Will turned back, Hannibal was undoing his cuffs, dropping one link at a time into his pant pockets before carefully rolling his sleeves up and loosening his tie. There was something captivating and appealing about the innate way Hannibal had about him, the way he oozed charm and appeal and grace in a way that never became unnerving or slimy.

Will took Hannibal’s tie in his fist and levered himself closer, gulping in air and bending his body against Hannibal’s hands when they found their way up his shirt. His hands were not soft, but they weren’t all hard edges and rough skin either, and when they skated against the small of Will’s back he shivered and pressed his face into Hannibal’s neck, breathing in his smell as he pulled apart Hannibal’s tie.

Will couldn’t remember wanting so badly, not for a long time, perhaps not ever. He got open the top button of Hannibal’s shirt before Hannibal’s hands insisted that Will’s skin was bared first; he shivered as his clothes were stripped from him, as his shirt joined Hannibal’s clothes in a pile of patterns, as Hannibal’s fingers unbuckled his belt and he was encouraged to step out of his shoes and socks and jeans.

Only then was control given back to him, and Will sat himself on the end of his bed, Hannibal stood in front of him, looking down at him. Will thought that he would give himself over entirely if Hannibal wanted it, relinquish his autonomy to let Hannibal’s demands seep into every part of him - but he was glad that Hannibal allowed him time and freedom. He extended his hands up and opened button after button, until he could pull the edges of Hannibal’s shirt from his pants and press his mouth against his lean stomach.

Will could feel that his breath was shaking. The length of time it had been since he was last with anyone manifested in a kind of virginal nervousness, and he was grateful when Hannibal cupped his face and tipped his chin up. “Breathe, Will,” he said. “We have all night.”

Will rested his fingers on Hannibal’s belt and then pressed the tips of them to the inside of his waistband. “I don’t want to take all night.”

Hannibal took Will’s hand and eased him onto the bed, and suddenly Will was flat on his back with Hannibal braced over him. “Then let’s not take all night,” Hannibal said, and his voice was like hammered velvet, forcing a shiver through Will’s body.

Oppressiveness had never been so enjoyable; Hannibal’s weight was warm over him, and Will found himself digging his feet into the sheets to arch up and and find the ways that he could fit his body tightly against Hannibal’s.

Will brought a hand between them and pressed it to the front of Hannibal’s pants, feeling the swell of his cock under his palm. The undeniable physical proof that he was wanted made his blood boil and steam. He breathed out Hannibal’s name and heard his own in return, hissed low in his ear.

The biggest problem wound up being letting go. Not of his control, when Hannibal encouraged him to turn over because it’d be easier that way, that was simple enough. Will could do that. It was the parts of his mind that were never quite present, always somewhere else with homicide and ichor, that was what he struggled with - and yet by the time that Will was groaning, trying to relax as Hannibal worked two fingers inside him, he could think of nothing else but this, of Hannibal, of how good it felt, of the way that Hannibal’s mouth blessing his shoulders and neck made his stomach do backflips.

Will pressed back on Hannibal’s fingers when the burn and stretch gave way to something better. Hannibal’s free hand came to rest on the small of Will’s back, pushing him down into the sheets and holding him there with a quiet power that left Will breathless. Hannibal kissed Will’s spine, and twisted his fingers, and Will’s moan was interrupted by an undignified whine that slipped from somewhere behind his teeth when Hannibal’s fingers left him.

Hannibal’s hands soothed along his skin, and bunching his fingers in the pillow, Will said, “I want to see you.” Without waiting for argument or agreement, he rolled over, and Hannibal simply watched as Will got comfortable against the pillows, spreading his legs so that there was one either side of Hannibal.

“Hannibal,” Will murmured, drawing him in close and skating a hand past his own arousal and to Hannibal’s, wrapping his fingers around his cock. Words waited on the edge of his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them - Will wanted to say something appealing, but it seemed he was out of practice.

Hannibal seemed to understand him, though. “No more waiting,” he told Will, his accent slurring. He straightened his back and nudged Will’s knees further apart with one hand, and then Will took a deep breath when Hannibal pushed inside him with one long, steady thrust.

Fingers, toys, whatever one’s preferences are, nothing compares to the real thing, and after so long the feeling sends Will reading. He screws his eyes shut, tips his head back against the pillow and holds on to what he can, struggling adapt to the stifling sensation of being so damn full.

Hannibal’s hands touch his face, and his lips brush over Will’s as he asks, “Will, are you with me?”

Will breathed in, finding places for his hands on Hannibal’s body - on his neck, his side - and then opened his eyes. He found himself staring right into Hannibal’s eyes, and for once in his life he made the firm decision not to look away. “I’m with you.”

He cried out on the first push-pull of Hannibal’s hips, and he couldn’t look away. God, he felt good, wanted, his skin hot and sensitive - he felt alive, really, in a way that he hadn’t in a while. There was life outside of his job and his dreams, beyond fishing and taking in strays... there was this, someone who understood him.

And all the possibilities that came with it.

Will was woken up the following morning not by hallucinations or his own sleepwalking or even his alarm, but by the general sounds of activity in the house below him. Sun seeped through his windows, shattered apart by the silhouette of trees outside, and Will’s clock told him that he should have been up twenty minutes ago.

Rather than panic, Will just laid there. He listened to footsteps in his kitchen and heard sizzling, and soon after the smell of something good and home-cooked was drifting up into his bedroom, and at that Will finally found the strength to crawl from beneath his bed sheets.

He moved half asleep, opening a drawer to find clean underwear and a t-shirt. Will ached in ways, a seeping weariness that permeated his very bones, but it was pleasant. A reminder.

Quick steps down the stairs and then he was there, peering into the kitchen and watching Hannibal’s back as he cooked. Hannibal was more or less dressed, in his shirt and pants, though he looked as rumpled as Will felt.

“You drive to my house late at night, you stay, and now you’re making breakfast,” Will mumbled, laughing at the sheer straight-out-of-a-romance-novel edge to it. “I thought you might have driven back to Baltimore already.”

Hannibal looked over his shoulder. Will thought about how good Hannibal looked with a day’s worth of stubble. “My apologies. Did you want me to leave without saying anything?” He sounded much more awake than Will was. Will migrated to the kettle, to where instant coffee beckoned his senses.

“Well, it was quite the late night visit,” Will said, then rolled his shoulders. He heard the bones pop and crack. More seriously, he said, “What about the café?”

“Abigail will open it and I will join her later in the morning. When you have gone to work. When was the last time that you actually cooked in your kitchen, Will?”

“I don’t know,” Will admitted, staring at the kettle until it boiled. “Last week, maybe.”

Hannibal tutted, and then turned the wooden spoon in his hand, stirring scrambled eggs in the frying pan atop the stove. “You should take more care of yourself. It might help.”

“Why do that when I have you?” Will didn’t quite mean for it to come out as sarcastic as it sounded, but Hannibal seemed unruffled. Will heaped sugar into his coffee and wrapped his hands around the hot mug, turning and leaning back against the counter. He took to watching the shift of Hannibal’s back beneath his shirt. “I’m going to be late for my classes.”

Hannibal lifted the frying pan from the stove, turning it off on his way to the plates, where he scraped out the eggs and then put the pan in Will’s sink. “You don’t seem terribly concerned about that.”

Will sniffed and drank his coffee. “I find myself very relaxed.”

“You slept well?”

Will could feel his ears heating up. He looked into the depths of his drink and remarked, “You know I slept well. You were there.”

Hannibal seemed more than a little triumphant as he slid their plates onto Will’s little table-for-two. “That I was,” he returned, and gestured for Will to come and sit down.

“Would this be our second date?” Will asked, setting his cup of coffee down as he took a fork instead, digging straight into breakfast. Even for nothing more than seasoned scrambled eggs, it was good. Hannibal really did put a lot into his cooking.

“Let me see.” Hannibal seemed to think it over. “I met you wearing more or less what you wear now. Then we had coffee together, more than once. Sunday’s lunch certainly formalised the matter, and then there was last night... and now this morning. Taking all things into account I would call this our fourth or fifth date.”

Will stared at Hannibal. “Are these dates or are we dating?”

Hannibal was impassive. “You tell me.”

Will tried to come up with reasonable objections. He wasn’t sure if he was looking for ways for this to go wrong or just being cautious. “Don’t you think it’s a touch fast?”

Hannibal honestly shrugged. “I’m not a young man. I own a business, I care for a teenage girl who has been through very much. I appreciate commitment and stability. I get the feeling that you do, too.”

Will twisted his mouth. “I’ve never had much chance to try it.”

Hannibal seemed entirely nonplussed by their conversation, continuing to eat as though it were nothing more important than the forecast of weather for the day. “Maybe now is your chance, then.”

Will sat back, stretching his legs out, his food forgotten in favour of watching Hannibal. His heart felt... light. It was a foreign feeling. Will wanted to get used to it. “So what would I call you? My boyfriend?”

That got Hannibal’s attention, in the sense that he finally stopped eating in order to look at Will with a raised eyebrow. “Perhaps ‘partner’ would be more appropriate.”

The morning’s good mood persisted long after Will and Hannibal went their separate ways, and all the way to Quantico, and dragged on even through Will’s humbling apology to Alana Bloom. “You should have called and said you were going to be late,” she scolded under her breath, and she was right, as she often had a tendency to be. Will apologised again, more earnestly, and bought Alana a cafeteria lunch to thank her for taking his class.

His good mood was so potent that even his lectures, even pixels of bloodlines couldn’t bring down his spirits more than a notch, and then at the end of the day as Will packed his things and prepared to go home, Jack Crawford appeared.

“It’s definitely the Ripper this time, Will.”

“It was definitely the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will confirmed, as he stared at the rows of bookshelves in Hannibal’s study. He could see the titles on the spine of every book, but his eyes didn’t process the words.

Hannibal watched from behind his desk. “This killer has eluded the FBI for a number of years, I hear.”

“As Tattle Crime correctly - unfortunately - reports.” Freddie Lounds had been lurking around the edges of the crime scene today, making no attempt to be subtle about things since she was now well known to the BSU. Will had been grateful to see Beverly snap her latex gloves off in order to go personally escort Freddie away.

“Tattle Crime is tasteless,” Hannibal said, and Will made an irritated noise of agreement. “Will you tell me about what you saw today?”

Will thought about it. He touched golden lettering on the spine of an old book, but didn’t absorb anything about it, only the glitter of gold-on-brown. There was a line somewhere in his job contracts saying that he couldn’t talk about personal details of cases with people that he knew, and it was a logical, good rule, but Will needed someone to air this out with.

There was really no one better to talk about this with than a former psychiatrist. He rubbed his hands together as though he were cold and then turned, approaching Hannibal’s desk and touching the surface lightly. “The Chesapeake Ripper killed a plumber - Anthony Moore. This, this man, the Ripper laid him out like a tapestry.”

He shook his head unhappily. “This killer elevated murder to an art form. He kills people who are... they’re not evil, but he treats them little better than pigs for the slaughter. They infuriated him, in some fashion, be it small or large. There is no love in his mutilation. He took organs, he took Anthony Moore’s heart, and made a mural of the rest of him.”

Hannibal eyed him. “Did you read this from his kill or from his mind?”

Will folded his arms and huffed. “His kill. The Ripper has never yet left enough of himself behind for me to really... feel him.”

“He remains an indistinct shade. That must be unusual for you.”

“I want to understand him,” Will said, and he found himself leaning against a wall, his shoulder pressed flat as he tipped his head onto it. “I can... I can put my hands out and put them through him. He’s always there, but only ever barely. Remnants.” Hannibal was silent, thoughtful, watching. Will flickered his eyes across Hannibal and then shook his head. “I can only see him from the right angle. He’s...” Will laughed bitterly. “He’s hardly tangible.”

Hannibal linked his fingers on top of his desk. “Do you find yourself trying harder to become this killer than others? Despite the plethora of problems that each new mind brings you?”

“I want to know him,” Will said, as good as a yes. “I want to find him.”

“What do you see of this Ripper so far? From what you’ve come across?”

Will closed his eyes to think about it and whispered, trusting the empty room to carry his voice, “His silhouette. But he’s like dust caught in sunlight, and his edges blur if I try to touch him.” Will opened his eyes again. “And he disappears if I look into the shadows.”

Hannibal seemed to have no advice to give. No questions, nothing to coax ideas and order out of the back of Will’s mind. After a long, silent pause, Hannibal said, “Would you like a drink?”

“God, yes.” Will pushed himself off the wall. “Do you have whiskey?”

It turned out that Hannibal had both whiskey and ideas. He allowed Will two fingers of whiskey and then traded in the alcohol for his mouth, after which he said, “I think you should sleep here tonight. We can both turn in early, and give your mind a rest from what torments you.”

When Will protested, Hannibal pointed out that his dogs could survive by themselves for one night. Will tried to point out in return that he was prone, occasionally, to nightmares and sweating, but Hannibal brushed all his concerns aside with a mute shake of his head. “You slept better when you were with me,” Hannibal said, and Will was tempted to point out that there were extenuating circumstances last night.

Tempted, but he never did. Instead he allowed Hannibal to maneuver the pair of them into his room, and somehow he found himself tangled entirely innocently with Hannibal under his thousand thread count cotton sheets.

This was difficult, Will realised. Embracing and falling asleep after sex was one thing; Will was content to be spooned when he was too exhausted to argue. Willingly climbing into bed with someone else for the sole purpose of sleep, that was another. He kept in mind that this was one of the things involved in a relationship, that things weren’t always about satisfaction.

“I don’t remember the last time I did this,” he admitted, trying to find a peaceful rhythm for his breathing as he found a way to mesh comfortably with Hannibal. Hannibal’s fingers wrapped around his and Hannibal kissed him, firm but chaste.

Will’s heart tightened and he wondered if this was the kind of thing that people lived for. It seemed possible.

He fell asleep to the rhythm of Hannibal’s breathing.

It was not, however, a restful sleep. In the dark he thought he was awake, but then the bed fell out from under him replaced by an encompassing night that he recognised as the fields around his home, and he was cold on the ground, stones and mud pressing into his bare skin.

He stood, and began to walk, over ground frozen hard by winter nights. Pain soaked into the soles of his feet, but he paid no particular mind, and only kept walking - and then, Will realised, he couldn’t get any closer to his house, whether he were walking or running or even crawling to it. It remained out of reach.

These were the worst of Will’s dreams. He had yet to decide if dreams were preferable to sleepwalking or if he really would rather just fall off his roof, but being alert in a dream was a nightmare he hadn’t yet come to terms with. Knowing it was a nightmare - and yet, pinching his skin did nothing. In dreams he couldn’t even feel it. He just had to keep going. He was used to that, but it never meant he was happy about it.

Will turned and the empty land that he was so sure had been behind him became thick woods. He stepped forward and hissed in pain, stopping to hunch down and pull a thorn from his skin. Will frowned, a sense of déjà vu washing through him like nausea.

There was a rustling in the distance. Will looked up sharply, throwing the thorn aside and stepping over roots and through piles of cold, damp leaves, and he saw a great shape pass through the woods.

Will followed it with the unquestioning tenacity of bloodhound, until he came to a clearing and stopped. The beast in front of him was on all fours, with a tail long and broad, with thickly corded muscles and large wings that stretched out on either side. Two horns curled backwards on its head and it growled out long and low, and its breath steamed in front of it as it said, “Will.” 

The beast strained and shuddered as it rose on two legs, toes curling into the dirt, and it began to turn. Will stepped back from the shock as the creature presented with seven heads, and they were all faces he knew: with closed eyes there was Jack Crawford and Freddie Lounds, Alana Bloom and Beverly Katz, the ripper’s newest victim Anthony Moore and the poor dead woman from the church; and in the center of them all, the only head that seemed to see, was Hannibal, and a crown circled his forehead.

And Will woke up.

He was sweat-drenched, of course, and no longer was Hannibal’s presence comforting; even if Hannibal had remained asleep, the extra limbs were too close and too much, but he was awake - and saying something, but the ringing in Will’s ears was so loud that he couldn’t hear him, and when he looked at him even with blinking there was a shadow in his eyes that gave Hannibal those great curved horns.

Will decided that the best course of action was to just abandon the bedroom entirely, rolling out of the bed and stepping down the hall into Hannibal’s kitchen. He braced over the sink, the cool metal of the draining board soothing under his fingers, and then he turned the tap on and - forsaking dignity of any kind - just hunched over and shoved his face into the stream of water until his heart no longer threatened to burst from his chest like something out of a horror movie.

“Will? Are you alright?”

He finally took his head out of Hannibal’s sink, turning off the tap as he did and turning to look over his shoulder. It was Abigail, stood in the entrance to the kitchen-diner, her hair a mess and her face confused and tired.

Will stared at her as he searched for the right answer to that, and his eyes fell to her bare throat, and he suddenly realised why Abigail was always wearing a scarf. A long, thick scar ran horizontal across the left side of her throat, and Will made to pull his eyes away from it. Abigail shifted uncomfortably, folding her arms. Will grabbed two sheets of kitchen roll, realising he was dripping water all over the floor, and made to clean up, telling Abigail as he did so, “I’m - I’m alright. Did I wake you up?”

Abigail seemed blatantly unconvinced, but she appeared to let it slide. “No, I was in my bathroom. I heard someone come out into the hall and I thought you were Hannibal. Is he asleep?”

“No, I am not.” Hannibal appeared behind Abigail, wrapped in a dark robe. “Will?”

“I’m sorry,” Will said, blotting water off his face. “Apparently you can’t save me from my mind.”

“I didn’t think that I could.” That gave Will pause, and he screwed up the towels, prepared to ask Hannibal exactly what that meant when suddenly he was close and handing something to Will. It was his shirt, and Will realised that he was stood in front of Hannibal’s adopted daughter wearing nothing but two inches of sweat and his boxers.

He hastily pulled his shirt on.

“What are you doing up, Abigail?” Hannibal’s voice had taken a different tone, something fatherly tickling around the edges of it.

Abigail’s eyes flickered between Hannibal and Will and she answered blandly, “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah.” Hannibal turned back to Will. “It seems we are all suffering tonight.” He walked past Will, and without question pulled cups down from shelves before setting up a kettle full of water on the stove. Will wanted to ask if he could just try going back to sleep, but Abigail was taking a seat at the table and Hannibal gestured for Will to join her - so he did.

“You really don’t look alright,” Abigail said, eyeing Will suspiciously. “You’re... sweaty.”

“You don’t look that great yourself,” Will answered, hunkering down on his chair. “What time is it anyway?”

“A little after three.” Abigail put her elbows on the table and leaned forward, her hand conspicuously covering the scar across her neck. “Dad, what tea are you making? Lemon and - “ There was a pause, a catch in her voice, and then Abigail finished her sentence, “Lemon and ginger?”

Hannibal turned, looking quietly at Abigail, and then he said, “Just lemon.”

Abigail swallowed, dropping both of her hands to the table with a nod. She seemed to grow eager as the kettle began to whistle, and when Hannibal had finally filled three cups with steaming tea, Abigail stood up and collected one and quickly told Hannibal, “I think I’ll just drink this in my room. Thanks.”

Hannibal took a seat beside Will once she left and pushed a cup towards him. Will frowned at the space that she had inhabited, and quietly asked Hannibal, “What happened to Abigail?”

Hannibal’s upper lip curled and he sat back and told Will, “You have been with the FBI some time. I’m sure that you have heard of the Garrett Jacob Hobbs.”

Nausea tugged behind Will’s belly button and when he spoke it felt like his lips were sewn together. How could he forget Garrett Jacob Hobbs? “The Minnesota Shrike,” Will whispered, and Hannibal nodded, and Will said, “I killed him three years ago.”

The pieces fell into place far too quickly. Hobbs had a daughter, one he tried to kill when Will and a couple of uniformed officers came to see him; he’d thrown the bleeding body of his wife out the front door to buy himself time and left his child dying in his kitchen. Will had never met Abigail Hobbs then though - he’d gone immediately after Hobbs, leaving the home-turned-crime scene to the uniformed police as he chased him through back woods and across a stream until he shot him and Garrett Jacob Hobbs died whispering, “See? Do you see?” like a madman.

Will had to laugh to stop himself from throwing up. “I’m dating the man who adopted the daughter of a murderer that I shot nine times,” he laughed, and could taste bile in his throat nonetheless. He drank half the hot tea in one go, needing the scald more than he needed to appreciate the soothing lemon accents.

He waited for a reaction from Hannibal. For something. Instead, there was only, “I didn’t know. Abigail never mentioned a name when she spoke of the death of her father.”

“No, they kept my name out of the press, at least until Tattle Crime found it - ” Will set his cup down. “How did you come to know Abigail?”

“She was my last patient as a psychiatrist. I’m sure you can imagine why she needed therapy.”

Will twitched, adjusting the way he was sat. He stared somewhere in the region of Hannibal’s heart. “Do you make a habit of taking in the damaged? You adopted Abigail Hobbs, and more recently you took in a stray you found in the woods of Virginia.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “Not a habit, no.”

Will folded his arms around himself and closed his eyes, trying to encourage his breathing to go slower. There was too much to take in; his new nightmare of the seven-headed beast and now the old nightmare of the Shrike, resurfacing in a much crueler fashion that he had ever anticipated.

“It took me,” he said in hushed tones, “years to get over the way I killed Garret Jacob Hobbs. To get over how I spent days climbing inside his mind only to have eight dead girls and a dead wife and a comatose daughter and blood on my hands at the end of it. To recover from how killing him felt... good, and how I hated myself for taking any enjoyment at all from that. And now I find you and the last living remains of that case.”

Hannibal’s voice found him in the darkness. “Abigail goes by Lecter now. She has endeavoured to leave her past behind her much in the same way that you have.”

Will let his eyes open, let dim light come back into them. Hannibal formed in shapes and colours and then finally focus, and Will said to him, “She hated that she called you dad.”

“I am not wholly dissimilar to her father. He doted on her much as I do. Abigail’s tongue slips when she is tired and she finds it discomforting that she could ever think of anyone else as  her father, especially after the sort of man he turned out to be.”

Will huffed, tapping his fingers on the table. “Have you psychoanalysed every single person that you care about?”

“It isn’t a skill that I’ve been able to turn off at will. Much like your own talents. At least it means I know those people I care about very well.” 

Will smiled sadly and told Hannibal, “I think I should go.” He couldn’t be here any more - not tonight - and in his mind, he questioned the rationality of the situation, of whether or not he could really date a former psychiatrist. It wasn’t even just the truth of Abigail that perturbed him; it was the way he suddenly felt like a collection piece.

Hannibal only nodded and helped Will put together his things. At the door, Will kissed him goodnight, and then stopped before he left, instead touching his forehead to Hannibal’s. “You know,” he murmured, “for a while I thought that slipping this fast was alright.”  

“Slipping?” Hannibal breathed back to him. “Or do you mean falling?”

“Slipping. Falling implies something far more deliberate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the positive response you've had towards my story so far! I'm awful at getting back to people via comments, but I read them and appreciate them all. We're now 2/3rds of the way through this little story - and I hope it still pleases.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will thinks on the Chesapeake Ripper, and pays Hannibal a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is. Last chapter. Hope it doesn't disappoint. Thank you for reading! All your comments are wildly appreciated ubu

_There was a monster in my bed_

“Will, where is your head at?” Anywhere but here, he thought, but kept silent as he stared at the masses of photographs on the pinboard in front of him. Jack Crawford pushed, “You haven’t been in the game for days. You have to level with me.”

“I’ve had personal distractions,” he said, by way of explanation.

“What does that mean?”

“It means he has a partner and all is not well in paradise,” Beverly Katz said from somewhere across the room. Her perception was admirable but frustrating. All eyes fell on Will and he pointedly ignored them. Beverly’s voice called to him again. “Girl or boy?”

Will shifted and took a third option. “Man. He even has a daughter.” Perhaps dropping details would encourage his colleagues to step back.

“What’s his name?” Brian Zeller’s voice. Apparently not.

“Hannibal,” Will supplied, and then sighed loudly to expression his irritation.

“Not Hannibal Lecter?”

To Will’s surprise, that was Jack. He straightened up and turned to him with a frown. “You know him?”

“Only by name.” Jack’s hands were in his pockets. “Alana Bloom mentioned him. He was her mentor during her residency, I think. A formidable psychiatrist by all accounts.”

Will was starting to feel like his life was one big joke. There were too many connections between Hannibal’s life and his, it was too easy to play six degrees of separation. Things were just too close. He huffed. “Well, now he makes pastries and toast and coffee for a living. Can we please focus on the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“Of course.” Jack pulled his hands from his pockets and folded his arms instead. “Will - why don’t you tell us everything that you see of the Ripper. Everything that we know, everything we’ve learned right from the beginning. Perhaps all at once we can glean something new from it.”

Will nodded. “The Ripper has been active for a minimum of four years,” he started. “Most likely much longer. We know of fourteen victims, but he kills more than that, I think he has to. He usually kills them in groups of two or three over the course of a week but a few - a few singular bodies have been found, ungrouped from the rest.

“He behaves like a butcher but he clearly has extensive surgical knowledge; he takes their organs neatly, and only mutilates them to help confuse the visibility of his scalpel work. Post mortem reports all indicate that each of his victims were probably alive when he opened them up.” Will turned away from the pinboard, from the maps and photographs and ideas.

“He butchers these people because they deserve it. Maybe they’re not villains in the way that we might think. These victims never killed or intentionally harmed anyone. They just had... ignorant, foul personalities. They were pigs. Dumb livestock. He lays them out like... like art.” Will’s brow creased. “He’s refined, a man of culture and grace. He makes art out of beasts because he has the taste to.”

He fell silent. Something in his description itched at the back of his mind. It felt like he should see this killer clearer now, yet in Will’s mind he was still wrapped in shroud and mist and pierced by sunlight. Will was too blind to see him still. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t been on this case since the start. Maybe there was something missing, or he just wasn’t... immersed enough.

Jack tilted his head at him. “Are you getting something, Will?”

“I don’t know,” he answered earnestly. He added softly, “He likes killing. He enjoys hunting the same way anyone else does. The only difference is his choice of game. It’s not just art, what he does with the bodies. This is how he displays his kills.”

Will left it there. The mental trail went cold after that. Anything more personal than external analysis of the Ripper’s murders was hidden to him. It sounded like a lot, when he put his thoughts and their accumulated knowledge together and spoke it out loud - but it really wasn’t. How a man hates his victims isn’t any clue to who he is, not without something more obvious to go with it.

Will stared at the pinboard. Photographs of victims, maps, the tamer of the crime scene pictures - a grotesque tribute in full colour.

And then something came to him, like a sense memory, as if he’d caught a scent that reminded him of something long gone. His head almost itched to try and remember what it was, and then Will straightened up very suddenly and asked Jack, “We never had any leads on the copycat Shrike, did we? He killed the girl in the field and a girl in Hobbs’ cabin, but the trail went cold.”

Jack paid attention to that, standing up and walking over to Will, coming level with him and staring at the pinboard. “You think the copycat is the Ripper?”

Softly, Will said, “It’s the same MO, beneath the antlers and daughters. He hated them. He put them on display for whatever crimes they committed against him... but he made it an homage, too.”

There was a long, pregnant silence in the room, and Will waited.

Finally, Jack turned to Beverly and Brian and Jimmy and instructed, his voice sharper than it had been in a while, “Get every file we have on the copycat Shrike murders.”

It was not gratifying when Jack looked back to Will and said, “Good job.”

Will slipped away from Quantico as soon as he was able, eager to be away from thoughts of the Ripper - and with an apology on his mind. It had been nearly a week since he’d last spoken to Hannibal, and longer since he’d left in the middle of the night. He only hoped that he could catch Hannibal in some sort of forgiving mood.

It had taken time, to reconcile the truth of who Hannibal was and who Abigail was and what that meant for their relationship - and Will had concluded, after nightmares that left him throwing up in the small hours of the morning, that in the end for his relationship with Hannibal it ultimately meant nothing.

The meaning of things hinged on Abigail’s recovery and whether or not she would accept Will’s presence in the life of her guardian. Garrett Jacob Hobbs might’ve been a serial killer, a cannibal, a man crazed by how much he loved his family, but he was still Abigail’s father, before and after. Will had a feeling that may just make him a murderer worse than Hobbs, in Abigail’s eyes.

But he would never know until he tried. Even if it was far safer - emotionally speaking - not to. He remembered something Alana Bloom had said to him some months back, “Dogs keep a promise a person can’t.”

It was dark when Will got to Baltimore, darker still by the time that he’d made his way to the front of Hannibal’s place. The ‘Closed’ sign was hung in the door of the Grace Café, but Will leaned in close to the glass and through the gloom he saw Hannibal’s shape, leaning over tables and wiping them clean.

He knocked on the glass door as loudly as he dared.

“This is a surprise,” Hannibal said when he let Will in, stepping behind the counter and leaning on it as if Will were just a customer. The distance between them felt unusual, yet Will knew he deserved that. “Will you be staying long?”

Will opened his mouth to say no, and then closed it again. He settled for, “I don’t know. It depends how this goes.”

Hannibal raised his eyebrows at him and then said, “Long enough for coffee, I hope.”

Will smiled, though it twisted with a kind of pain he didn’t know he had in him. He swallowed it back and nodded, and then as he watched Hannibal turn and pull up mugs and turn back on machines - working with expertise in the dark, having neglected to turn on the main café lights when he let Will in - Will said to him, “I came by to apologise. I behaved like a child, running out in the middle of the night, and then when I stopped calling...”

“I found it rude,” Hannibal acknowledged, and the words pricked under Will’s skin like a thousand needles and they each drew blood. “But I also knew you needed time. The resurfacing of memories regarding Garrett Jacob Hobbs was troubling for you. Traumatic, even.”

Will found that he'd rather missed Hannibal’s terrible habit of psychoanalysis. It came to him as naturally as breathing, it seemed. He listened, rapt, and leaned forward onto the counter, putting his weight on his hands.

Hannibal returned to the counter, drawing Will’s eyes to his. He mirrored Will, hands down on the countertop, but he put one hand further forward than the other. The fist of that hand came level with Will’s, and Will breathed in slower when Hannibal stroked against his knuckle with one finger. “I know that you are not an unkind person, Will. Not deliberately. You would have been in touch sooner if you felt that you could have been.”

“I’m sorry,” Will murmured, and then laughed, a bitter choked noise as he remarked, “I haven’t exactly provided you with the,” he gestured with one hands, “stability and commitment that you asked for.”

Hannibal shrugged and then moved away, finishing up the coffee and holding out one cup to Will. “I didn’t ask you for anything.”

It was Will’s turn to let their fingers touch and linger, as he accepted the drink. “You didn’t have to.”

They shared a small couch at the back of the café, comfortably shoulder-to-shoulder, saying little over their drinks until they were empty and set aside on the table in front of them. They said even less then, trading in words and subtly for the crush of Will’s lips beneath Hannibal’s.

He’s been starved of this, by himself, by work and nightmares, and Will drinks in each touch like a dying man. He consumed Hannibal’s breath into himself, tasting coffee on warm sweet air, and Will craved more, opening his mouth further to Hannibal’s and reaching out. His stomach roiled when Hannibal’s teeth caught on his lower lip, and pulling and tugging and then they were kissing again.

Will eased away to ask, “Where’s Abigail?”

“Upstairs,” Hannibal supplied, and there was a darkness behind his eyes that made Will suppress a shiver.

“Will she come down here?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Will eased himself onto Hannibal’s lap, knees planted in the couch either side of Hannibal’s hips. It wasn’t a particularly comfortable position for two men of nearly the same height, but something burned inside Will, a craving for intimacy that he had the lead and control over. In the dark of the café, here at the back tucked away to the sides, he knew passersby wouldn’t - couldn’t - see them.

“Hannibal,” he said, his voice wavering, somewhere between a plea and a question.

There wasn’t the need for lengthy, drawn out foreplay; no teasing and talking, just an insistent roll of hips until Will couldn’t breathe and demanded more, so he pushed Hannibal back against the couch and got off his lap, hastily getting one leg out of his pants and boxers - he took the time, little though it was, to rub his hand against the swell in Hannibal’s pants before he undid belts, buttons, zippers, and then he was back in Hannibal’s lap.

Hannibal rumbled his name into the soft skin of Will’s throat and the sound went right through him. His fingers were digging into the skin of Will’s bared thigh, pressing white indentations, and Will took Hannibal’s hand in his to kiss his fingers. The marks on his thigh glowed and then faded, in the same time that it took for Will to wrap his lips and tongue around Hannibal’s first two fingers.

Will was, in a way, surprised at Hannibal’s compliance; somewhere in the back of his head he had expected doctorly protests, warnings of pain that would’ve felt more like promises, suggestions to go somewhere else, somewhere more dignified, do this out of sight where lubricant and condoms were on hand, where they could take all night and have all the time in the world.

Comprehension was blinding, striking him when he was fighting the pain of the burn and stretch, bearing down on Hannibal’s fingers inside him: Hannibal understood him. He had come to the very same conclusion before, but this was different; he saw with clarity that Hannibal was capable of stripping away his skin, to see beneath the mess of neuroses that he couldn’t control and societal expectations that crippled him.

He understood, for example, that this was what Will wanted - sex that was rough and dirty and a little bit painful, a consummation of his apology, an end to their lack of communication and to Will’s guilt for it. A heated catharsis.

The notion that Hannibal not only understood him so completely but willingly responded to him was very nearly overwhelming.

Will said nothing, biting his tongue on words and whimpers, exchanging them for the use of his tongue on his own hand, using that for the most rudimentary of lubricants to swipe over the length of Hannibal’s cock.

He wanted to tell Hannibal that he was ready but he didn’t have to; Hannibal pulled his fingers out and shifted down on the couch without being asked, making things easier, more comfortable, and then with his help Will was sinking down on his cock with a satisfied moan.

In the gloom he could only just see the shine of Hannibal’s eyes, but he could feel the heat from his gaze. He was a master of keeping Will’s eye contact without even trying, keeping them nose-to-nose as Will rode him, as he levered his hips up to match Will’s every movement.

It was, somehow, too much. Will opted for burying his face in Hannibal’s throat with a breathless groan, grasping at his hair, one hand gripping the back of the couch like a safety bar. Hannibal’s hands were firm at his waist, tips of his fingers pressing into his skin through his clothes, the occasional guttural groan escaping from the back of his throat.

“Hannibal,” he panted, repeating his name until he was no longer capable of finishing it, until it came out as a string of a single syllable, like comic book laughter. He squeezed his eyes shut, rutting down desperately, bestial, but then Hannibal coaxed him up into a kiss that soothed him just enough.

Between them, Hannibal’s fingers wrapped around Will’s cock, thumb skimming over the head with each upstroke. He gasped, leaning back, and Hannibal followed, his mouth latching onto Will’s pulse. It sparked an almost playful battle for control; Will tangled his fingers into Hannibal’s hair, kissing him fiercely, and scraped his teeth against the clean-shaven line of Hannibal’s jaw. Hannibal’s hand that wasn’t busy he took in his own, fingers wrapping around the wrist and then skating under his palm to catch Hannibal’s fingers and lead his hand up, off his waist to the side of his throat.

He laid his hand over Hannibal’s there. Hannibal’s thumb pressed up, hard under the side of his jaw. A car drove through the street outside, the headlights so bright that they lit up the shop as the car went by; they were illuminated for long enough that Will could drink in all the rich details of Hannibal’s face, the shape of his jaw and the slope of his nose.

“Will,” Hannibal murmured.

Will’s thighs had begun to tremble from the sheer exertion, the repetitive motion, and they ached all the more as the fire in his belly grew and he knew he was close. Hannibal knew it, too; his hand around Will’s cock went faster, strokes firmer, coaxing Will closer to the edge until he went over it, coming with a startled, loud cry that Hannibal kissed to silence.

His breath came in short, fast bursts, his heart pounding in his chest and his body tingling all over with burgeoning sensitivity; Hannibal took the opportunity of Will’s growing weakness to take control, hands hard on Will’s hips, his own hips driving up. Each thrust make Will groan weakly; he still shifted back into each one, determined that Hannibal would get as good as he gave.

When Hannibal came, it was with a low groan, his fingers twitching against the small of Will’s back. Will inhaled sharply, leaning heavily onto Hannibal, nosing against his hair on the exhale.

A long silence passed, and then Will said, “I’m gonna... need to borrow your shower.”

Hannibal huffed a laugh against Will’s collarbone. “Of course.” He splayed his palm across Will’s back, and then said, “If you were to stay the night...”

“I’d love to,” Will said, raking his fingers through the shorter hair on the back of Hannibal’s head.

They took care to delicately extricate themselves from each other. Will carefully pulled himself back into his clothes, shifting uncomfortably when he stood and became hyper aware of a trickle down the back of his thigh.

If it had been anyone else, Will thinks he would’ve been repulsed by the feeling. Although he was still grateful for the chance to shower.

“I’ll put our clothes in the laundry, too,” Hannibal said, standing and doing up his belt. His eyes went from the front of his own clothing, and then to Will’s, and he cleared his throat with a smile.

Will glanced down and conspicuously attempted to make it look less like he had come on his shirt. He didn’t want to think about what Abigail’s reaction would be if she saw her guardian and her guardian’s boyfriend covered in stains. “We’re gonna go straight for that shower, right?”

Hannibal’s shower - located in his ensuite - was plenty big enough for two, as it turned out. Will hadn’t actually expected that they’d share the space, but he didn’t object either. It was comfortable rather than claustrophobic, the water just on the right side of too-hot so that it turned Will’s skin pink as he cleaned up.

He turned under the spray to face Hannibal, unable to hold back a smile at the usually put together man drenched under the water with a bottle of shampoo in hand. Will leaned in and kissed Hannibal. He appreciated the quiet intimacy, the two of them together with only the sound of spray hitting the tiles and the occasional thoughtful hum from one or the other.

Will turned back to the tiles eventually, and washed his hair and scrubbed clean with the aid of soap and felt all the better for it; he needed this shower, the time to clean and relax, even if he wasn’t washing off miscellaneous body fluids at the same time. He closed his eyes under the stream of water and after a while forgot that he wasn’t alone - it was only when Hannibal’s hand slid across his bare hip that he remembered, and startled, straightening up and leaning back into Hannibal’s touch.

“Are we done?” He asked, and Will nodded.

Drying off, Will glanced at the grey towel he was using and commented, “Somehow I’m surprised that this thing isn’t monogrammed.”

Hannibal had wrapped a white towel around his hips and was wiping his face off with a smaller towel that he hung on the wall. “Mine aren’t,” he confirmed, “but Abigail’s are.”

“She likes to keep her things completely separate?”

“She tells me that many teenage girls are the same.” Hannibal walked out into his bedroom and Will followed, and just as he was watching Hannibal fold their clothes into a small wicker laundry basket and he found himself wondering what he was going to wear, Hannibal said, “We are not dissimilar in size, I hope you have no objections to borrowing some of my clothing.”

Will thought about himself wearing Hannibal’s clothes for a very long moment, about just how private it was to wear another man’s clothes, and then quickly said “Not at all” before his mind could run away from him. His mouth betrayed him before he could stop himself and he asked, “Does that thought - interest you as much as it does me?”

Hannibal moved to his drawers and pulled out a dark blue shirt, unfolding it as he handed it over to Will. The button down was made of a very soft, slightly fluffy fabric. A pyjama shirt. Will was glad. He couldn’t envision being able to sit around in something with a very high thread count; he’d ruin it.

Will suddenly remembered that earlier in the evening he’d gotten come on one of Hannibal’s very high thread count shirts, just as Hannibal said, “Are you asking if I find it arousing?”

Will tucked his towel around his hips to sit on the edge of the bed and pull the shirt on, buttoning it up slowly as he said, “Yes, I’m asking that. You do that on purpose.”

“Yes, I do. Knowing that you have to borrow clothing from myself because we dirtied yours, for one, is a potent feeling.” He could feel Hannibal’s eyes on his back. “And I do what on purpose?”

“You ask for clarification on a question you already understand.”

“I like people to know what they’re asking. To be clear about it.”

“A psychiatrist habit, then.”

“More than likely. Here.” Hannibal was holding out a matching pair of pyjama pants. Will took them with a quiet “thank you” and discarded the towel to put them on. By the time that he was done, Hannibal was in pants and was buttoning up a shirt.

Will watched him and when Hannibal made to tuck the shirt in, he said, “Don’t.”

Hannibal paused and rose an eyebrow at Will. Will supplied, “You’re always so put together that seeing you without your shirt tucked in is... different. Leave it. Uh. Please.”

Hannibal did as he was asked and stepped close to Will, and Will said, “It’s just a shirt but it... something about it makes you look more... wild.”

“Wild,” Hannibal mused, and after stealing a short kiss he said, “We should go to the kitchen. And call for Abigail. I’ve had braised lamb hearts cooking slowly for most of the afternoon; she will have kept an eye on it in my absence but I’m sure it is well ready for finishing and serving. There should be plenty for three.”

As they walked through to the kitchen - Hannibal holding the wicker washing basket in front of him - Will commented, “I would have thought you would be more careful about portions and precise measurements, what with your business and tastes, but this is the second time you’ve talked about making too much.”

“I used to be very meticulous about it,” Hannibal explained, setting the basket down and crossing to a large thick pot on the stove. He picked up a folded up kitchen towel and carefully removed the lid, checking the contents. “But then I adopted Abigail and I found that teenagers have a propensity to ask for seconds, or more often get up in the middle of the night to dig around for leftovers. I changed for her sake. She is a child and needed to be able to eat when she wanted.”

“She was a child, you mean.” Abigail appeared, her hair in a short French plait and her arms folded.

“Of course,” Hannibal amended graciously. “I’m glad you’re here, Abigail, I was just about to call you out of your room.”

“I was about to send out a search party for you.” She walked straight past Will, peering over Hannibal’s shoulder into the pot. “You and Will were down there... a really long time.”

“We had much to talk about.”

Will didn’t miss the way Abigail rolled her eyes. “Sure. Talking is obviously exactly what you did.”

“Abigail.” There was a gentle warning in Hannibal’s voice. “Please set the table for three. Will is going to be staying tonight.”

“Gotcha.” Abigail did as she was told, pulling out plates and cutlery and glasses, and she said to Will, “So you and Hannibal patched up whatever was wrong?”

Will managed a smile. “Yeah, we did.” He wasn’t sure how to feel or act around Abigail still, with the knowledge that he killed her father. He’d dreamt of Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ madness for months after he was dead, saw him behind his eyelids even when he was awake, and now it was like he could see Hobbs’ shadow behind his daughter.

Over Abigail’s shoulder he saw Hannibal preparing food and watching them. Something in Hannibal’s eyes told him to just stick out the evening. The secrets that dwelled inside him could wait.

Abigail said, "I'm glad." Will was surprised enough to smile.

The dinner passed quietly, pleasantly, without incident; in the midst of conversation Hannibal brushed his fingers against Will’s affectionate, gentle, and they stood shoulder to shoulder cleaning up in the kitchen afterwards, as they did on their first date. Classical music floated softly through the house all the while, a pleasant background sound.

After that was done, Hannibal took Will’s hand and inspected the palm where he had once cut it. “No injuries this time,” he said, and Will nodded.

“And yet now I have more reasons to do this.” He pressed his mouth to Hannibal’s. He asked, “When can we talk to Abigail - ?”

“Tomorrow,” Hannibal said, “after we are all done with work. If you would like. I know you would like to get that particular conversation out of the way as soon as you can.”

“Not that I look forward to it. Thank you.”

Hannibal offered a glass of wine, and they drank together in Hannibal’s study. Will browsed the lengths of the bookshelves and saw the titles, of old medical books, of art books, of books in languages that he didn’t know. “Where were you born?”

“Lithuania.”

“How many languages do you speak?”

“Three fluently. Others in fragments. Some better than others. I’m ashamed to admit that I do not speak my native Lithuanian quite as well as English, now. I’ve gone too long without engaging it in conversation.”

Will paused, reaching out to a book and touching the spine. “Don’t you think in Lithuanian?”

“I generally think in the language I spoke last. So I do an awful lot of thinking in English.”

“I’d like to hear you speak Lithuanian sometime,” Will murmured.

Glasses empty, they found themselves back in Hannibal’s bedroom, and Will was more content than the last time he was here to just climb into bed with him and settle down. It was easier to fall asleep this time, close but not quite touching Hannibal. Like the last time, though, he fell asleep to the sound of their breathing.

And like the last time he was here, dreams came to him.

He was in the woods, and the beast returned, lurching towards him on two feet. Will had thought to keep his gaze low, to avoid seeing those terrible heads and the horns that curled out from them, but it didn’t necessarily do him any good: at the feet of the beast there was Abigail, swathed in golden cloth.

Her throat was bleeding. She didn’t seem to notice. She gazed up at the beast with gladness.

Will looked up. Hannibal’s face stared down at him, with cold, black eyes. Smoke rose from the crown that circled his forehead, and blood dripped from the tips of his great curved horns. His six other heads seemed sad.

The beast reached for Will.

He woke up.

It was not a lurching dream, thankfully. His eyes opened and his heart hammered against his ribcage, and he could feel the faintest sheen of damp sweat on him; somehow the dream was at once worse and better than the last. It was shorter. His reaction was better.

It was disturbing, though. Will hated seeing Hannibal in his nightmares. The one person who had made him feel safe lately. He turned in bed, as quietly as he could, to look at Hannibal’s face in sleep. He seemed not a lot different from when he was awake. Will doesn’t know what he expected. It wasn’t as if unconsciousness ever really changed how people looked; it only ever changed how people perceived them. Seeing Hannibal as not a lot different, Will thought, was a good thing. It meant he already had a pretty well rounded vision of Hannibal.

Still unsettled by his nightmare, Will slid out of bed as quietly as he could. No deranged panicking this time, but he could really use a glass of water and the opportunity to silently pace. The ringing in his ears wasn’t so loud as normal.

Will navigated down the hallway towards the kitchen in the dark, unwilling to risk waking up Hannibal or Abigail by turning on the lights - it was gloomy but not pitch black, he could still see. He reached for a glass and then squatted down, opening Hannibal’s freezer to root around inside for a couple of ice cubes.

He grabbed a cold package to move it aside, and then stopped, turning the package over in his hands. It was meat of some kind, or organs, frozen fresh judging by the blood in the vacuum-sealed packet.

Will noticed the thin ice drawer and put the meat back where he found it, and as he was standing up, he felt like a ghost passed through him. He shivered, and quietly closed the freezer, forgetting about his drink entirely and putting the empty glass on the side.

He knew now.

“Will.”

He turned, and saw Hannibal stood down the hall. He approached silently, and there was a stiffness to him, little warmth in his eyes when he said, “Come back to bed.”

It wasn’t an invitation. It was an out. A chance to pretend like this never happened, like revelation hadn’t passed over him right there in the kitchen at god knows what time in the morning whilst wearing another man’s pyjamas, and Will’s stomach ached with the temptation to take the out. To fold and lose and accept it gratefully.

He couldn’t do it. Will’s voice was strained as he asked, “It wasn’t lamb heart we ate tonight, was it?”

Hannibal’s hands were held neatly behind his back. “It belonged to a particularly supercilious receptionist. I won’t bore you with the details.”

Will swallowed, taking a step forward, and then he stopped. The ground beneath his feet suddenly felt that much colder. “Does Abigail know that you’re the Chesapeake Ripper? Does she know that you were the Copycat Shrike, that you killed her friend - ?”

Hannibal inclined his head. He was so polite, so formal, and yet Will had no difficulty imagining him wrist-deep in Anthony Moore’s chest. “Are you really so concerned about whether or not she knows, Will, or are you stalling to buy yourself time?”

“Time before you kill me?” Will’s lips felt numb. “No.” It was true. His life felt particularly worthless, suddenly. He was more concerned about the teenaged girl sleeping in her room, if she was still a victim or if Hannibal had groomed her into a beast like himself.

He hated that Hannibal’s place in his nightmares made sense now.

Hannibal brought his hands to his sides. Something silver flashed in the dark and Will tensed, stepping back as Hannibal showed him the long, thin knife in his hand. “I was hoping I would not have to.” Hannibal stepped forward and told him, “I care deeply for you, Will. Things don’t have to go this way.”

“Don’t do that,” Will muttered. “You sound like a run of the mill psychopath.”

Hannibal’s eyes flashed dangerously.

Will whispered, “What are you asking me to do?” He knew already, but he had to hear it.

Hannibal said simply, “Come back to bed. And when you wake up, if you cannot forget what you worked out, you can learn to accept it.” Hannibal was in Will’s personal space before he could register it or flee, and Will jumped, anticipating the knife in his gut, but there was only Hannibal’s hand over his heart. “You don’t want to kill me, Will, or be killed by me. You don’t even want to see me go to jail. There are no other men like me, no women, nobody who could fill the void for you the way that I have.” He tipped his head forward, close enough to kiss Will when he asked, “Am I wrong?”

“You are not wrong,” Will said, and his heart could feel Hannibal’s fingers pressed over it even through skin and bone and muscle and blood, and his heart beat faster for it, straining out of his chest for Hannibal’s touch. “You are a brilliant psychiatrist, Hannibal. But then it’s not really psychiatry, this, is it.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You weren’t suffering from... ‘sleeping preclusions’ when we first met, were you?”

“Of course not. I was disposing of waste. And I stumbled upon an injured lamb.”

Will shut his eyes, stepping back from Hannibal. He turned away, bracing his hands on the sides, trying to catch his breath. No matter how deeply he inhaled, his lungs felt empty. “How much did you lie about, exactly?”

“Many more things than I could ever list for you, I’m afraid.” He heard Hannibal sigh. “I knew that you would eventually begin to suspect me but I admit I didn’t anticipate you figuring it out so quickly.”

Will shuddered and opened his eyes. “Did you know about me? About... my connection to Abigail, when we met? Who I was, what I do...”

“You can choose not to believe me, but it was chance. I did learn about it soon after, though. Freddie Lounds is a remarkable source.”

“And you kept quiet.”

“Of course. What made you realise the truth?”

“I don’t know,” Will admitted, as he looked at Hannibal’s rows of kitchen knives. They were too far away. Hannibal would know what he was going for and slide his own blade between Will’s ribs before Will could even touch them. “I was looking for ice...” He eyed the empty glass by his hand. “And it was like someone whispered it in my ear.” It was the only potential weapon he had, but he didn’t touch it.

Instead, he balled his hands into fists and turned back to Hannibal. He took two steps to his side and said, “I thought that I understood you.” It was Garrett Jacob Hobbs all over again except Will had never loved Hobbs; he’d never laid in his bed and shared all his personal spaces with him. He had only ever wanted to understand Hobbs, and just as he thought he had succeeded he failed, catastrophically, and left a child without parents and a scar that would never leave her.

He thought for certain that he understood Hannibal. It was what allowed him to get so close. He understood that Hannibal had a penchant for psychoanalysing, something he had been unable to drop even after he quit seeing patients, and that Hannibal was a lover of fine foods and classical music and that he was a good father, and that in return, Hannibal understood Will.

“You do understand me,” Hannibal said, and it sounded like a pitiful, out of character reassurance until he continued, “You understand me perfectly. You knew me intimately as a member of society and as a shade that you hunted, and the only reason you failed to connect the two was that you refused to recognise me.”

Will’s heart dropped into his stomach as Hannibal said, “You let me remain a silhouette so that you would never have to see.”

“I see you now,” Will answered in an undertone. He saw the truth of it all, the puzzle pieces sewn together, and the Chesapeake Ripper became something that Will both wanted and loathed, someone who terrified and excited him.

He saw Hannibal Lecter with the heart of Anthony Moore in his hands, cradled between them, envisioned him packing someone’s cooked liver into a food processor and serving the resulting pâté to waiting customers. He saw him making breakfast sausages from a sad girl’s gut and feeding them to his tired adoptive child.

He saw the Chesapeake Ripper’s hands on his own body, saw all the thought and grace, the kindness, the way he would flirt, remembered the taste of his mouth and the wash of his affections.

“How does it make you feel?” Hannibal asked.

Will swallowed, pain grating his dry throat. “Disgusted.”

Hannibal’s spine stiffened. “How do you think your Jack Crawford would feel if you brought me in, Will? Would you be able to tell him how you feel for a serial killer? How you have done much more than empathise?”

Will inhaled slowly. “Well,” he said, with a forced smile that made his teeth hurt, “I’ll have to cross that bridge when I get to it. If I ever get to it.” He looked to the knife in Hannibal’s hand. “I don’t think both of us will be leaving here alive.”

“It seems that way,” Hannibal acknowledged. He seemed sad. Or disappointed.

Will reached for the glass.


End file.
